"But you did find fingerprints."
"Yes, sir. Lots of prints, all belonging to either Rebecca or Ronald Wicker." He met the D.A.'s high-powered gaze. "I expected that, because they both lived there at the time."
"What about DNA? Hairs? Fibers?"
"We found all of the above, but again, every bit of the DNA evidence belongs to either the defendant or the deceased and can easily be explained away. The fibers either came from articles inside the home or clothing belonging to the Wickers."
Of course. Ronald Wicker knew exactly what he was doing. He's going to get away with murder just like Dirk did. Keegan's seething emotions bubbled to the surface. She gripped the pencil so hard she was surprised it didn't break.
Across the way, Mitch Ransom kept sneaking glances at her, and that didn't help her antsy mood one bit. Tingling nerves plus anger led to mistakes, and yet she couldn't help teetering on the brink of a meltdown. What in the world would she tell Sheriff Blaylock about her rushing to the hospital to find out if he were okay? She should have just stayed here and eaten lunch. Then she wouldn't have to spend the afternoon starving half to death and worrying whether or not the sheriff would think she was off her rocker.
Quincy rose to cross-examine the forensic tech, his expression entirely too gleeful for a participant in a murder trial. He had the upper hand, and he knew it. Keegan did her best to capture his triumphant look on paper. The jubilant defense attorney anticipating a victory.
Fine. Let the bastard come out on top. His win will mean a loss for Wicker in the form of a knife to the throat, courtesy of me.
Keegan suppressed a grin so no one would think she sided with the defense, because she sure as hell didn't. Best-case scenario, the prosecution would pull a rabbit out of a hat and turn the jury on its ear. Too bad she didn't believe that would happen.
She was right.
Just a little after three o'clock, the prosecution rested. They had no more evidence to present. No more witnesses, nothing else to prove Ronald Wicker had murdered Rosemary.
His fate now rested with the jury.
Judge Rouse turned to face those seven men and five women -- four whites, five blacks, two Hispanics, and one Asian -- and they all sat forward in their chairs to hear his instructions.
Keegan's hand flew across the page as she sketched their eager expressions. How would they rule? She was pretty sure they would acquit Wicker because so much of the evidence against him was circumstantial, so she had to be ready to act soon.
If they didn't, no problem. She'd ferret out another target.
Once the judge finished giving the jury his instructions, the twelve filed out. Seconds later, Rouse banged his gavel and proclaimed that court was in recess until they ruled.
"All rise!" the bailiff shouted.
The spectators rose as one, and nearly all of them stretched to get out the kinks from sitting on the hard benches all afternoon. They waited until Judge Rouse disappeared through a door behind the bench, and then murmured among themselves while a pair of court officers led the defendant from the courtroom. Quincy and his co-counsel followed him out.
The dour look on Abington's face as the crowd turned to leave told Keegan she was probably right about an imminent acquittal. Too bad she couldn't tell him what she had planned for Wicker. Might make the jury's ruling easier to stomach.
She packed up her sketches and supplies and headed for the door.
"Keegan," Mitch Ransom called as he intercepted her. "I need to talk to you."
"Not here," she said, her nerves thrumming.
He nodded and followed her out into the hall. She led him over to an alcove partially hidden by a huge fake ficus, and then turned to face him.
"What is it? Any word from the hospital?"
"As a matter of fact, yeah. I exchanged texts with the sheriff when I took a bathroom break a little while ago." He slid his hands into his pockets. "He's in a room now and is doing great except for being pissed off at having to stay overnight."
"Oh, good." She released a breath she hadn't known she was holding. "He'll be okay?"
"Once he has a few months of physical therapy, he'll be good as new."
"I'm so glad." The knot that had sat like a lead weight in her chest since she left the hospital slowly unfurled.
Mitch smirked. "You might not be so glad when you hear what he asked me to do."
"What do you mean?" Alarm shot through her, because she thought she knew what he was about to say. She swallowed back the urge to run and looked him in the eye. "Tell me."
"He wants me to bring you to the hospital so he can interview you."
"Are you kidding?" She gaped at him. "He just got out of surgery after being shot."
"Wasn't much to the surgery, apparently. The bullet wound was a clean through-and-through that didn't do a lot of damage. They just cleaned the wound and stitched him up. I offered to interview you for him, but he declined. Fancy that."
"I see." Her stomach flip-flopped at the implication. "Well... it's good that he feels well enough to question me himself, right?"
"Yeah. Unfortunately, he thinks you may have had something to do with the shooting."
"Seriously?" Keegan's nerve endings sang. "No. I've already told you I--"
"I know, but he wants to hear it from the horse's mouth," the detective broke in. He studied her. "So... if you'll agree to meet with him, I'll text you his room number."
"Fine. I'll go." She avoided Mitch's eyes, because she didn't want him to see the eagerness she was sure had surfaced in hers. She wanted to see for herself that Rick Blaylock was okay, even though she dreaded being bombarded with questions she still wasn't ready to answer.
He grinned. "Figured you would, so I told him you'd be there by five o'clock."
"Thanks a lot." Already vibrating with anticipation, she turned away. Better to make a quick exit than to let him see just how much she wanted to see the sheriff.
Mitch caught her arm. "Tell him the truth, Keegan. He hates liars."
"Okay," she agreed with a gulp. "I don't have anything to hide."
Yeah, right. I still don't have a plausible story about why I was at the club that night. Guess I'll have to make up a boyfriend after all. A boyfriend I kicked to the curb for preferring to gawk at strippers rather than making love to me.
The idea galled her, but she couldn't think of a better explanation.
With an accepting nod, the detective let go of her arm and walked away.
Keegan drew in a deep breath, gathered her courage, and marched down the hall to her office to scan her sketches into the computer. She'd only done one when her phone dinged. She checked the display and found a message from Mitch containing a single four-digit number.
Rick Blaylock's hospital room number.
Goose bumps rose on her arms as she sent Mitch a thank you message.
She hurriedly scanned in the rest of her sketches, fired them off to the PR department, and stopped by the restroom. She needed to rest for a little while, but didn't have time.
By the time the clock hit ten after four, she was on her way out the door.
*****
"Mindy? I need you to get over to Mercy General right now."
"Why, Ted?" She squeezed the phone and suppressed a groan at the urgency in the news director's tone. He got excited about the stupidest things. Some socialite had probably had a fender bender and broken a nail. "Who's on their way to the ER?"
"Sheriff Blaylock," her boss said. "He's been shot. I heard about it on my scanner."
"Oh, my God. When? Where?" Her heart skipped a beat. "What the hell happened?"
"Someone shot him outside his campaign manager's office, apparently. He's on his way to the hospital via ambulance right now. That's all I know."
"Thanks for the heads up. I'm on my way." She slammed down the phone and snatched up her makeup kit. No time to get Suzy's help this morning. She had to round up a cameraman and get to the hospital before their competitors beat them there.
A scoop like this could only help her career.
As Mindy touched up her makeup, her thoughts flew to Henry Maillet. Did he know what had happed to his opponent? Would he care?
"Probably not unless Blaylock dies," she finally murmured, tossing down the eye pencil with a deadly smirk. "I'll worry about him later."
She finished her face by adding a little mascara and lipstick, then hurried into the newsroom and grabbed Bob Watterson, an experienced cameraman who wasn't afraid to break a few rules. Her heart thudded as he jerked out a set of keys.
"I'll drive," he announced, angling for one of the station's many cars. "Just got back from doing the traffic report. My equipment's still in the trunk."
"Wish we kept the helicopter here."
"That'd sure be nice, wouldn't it? Where are we going?" He jerked open the car door and slid into the driver's seat.
She got in beside him, fastened her seatbelt, and took a deep breath. "Mercy General Hospital. Sheriff Blaylock's been shot."
"Hot damn." With a big grin, Bob fired up the car. "Grab the door handle and hang on, sweet cheeks. Your station's gonna have one wing-ding of a lead story for their noon report."
Chapter Six
Rick glanced down at his cell phone and grinned. Mitch had come through for him again. Thanks to the detective's smooth talking, Keegan Riley was on her way to the hospital. Not for a regular visit, of course, but so he could question her like he'd planned to do before the shooter had winged him this morning. He was surprised she'd agreed to do it.
"She swears she had nothing to do with your shooting," he read aloud from Mitch's text, not surprised the detective had already informed Ms. Riley of their suspicions.
In reality, she probably hadn't been behind the shooting, but Rick wanted to cover all the bases. Right now, deputies were busy scouring the uninhabited wooded areas near Willa's office and canvassing the scattered homes and businesses in the area, hoping to uncover some evidence, no matter how small, that might lead them to the man who'd pulled the trigger.
He fired off a text thanking Mitch for helping him, and then dropped his phone onto the bed. He'd already had two calls from Willa; one to confirm he was okay, and the other to verify he'd have to cancel his appearance at a campaign event at the community center tonight. If she hadn't called, he would've forgotten all about it. No way was he giving a speech less than twelve hours after taking a bullet, even if it might make him look like a hero.
His shoulder throbbed.
He adjusted the pillow behind his head and struggled to get more comfortable. Staying in the hospital overnight sure as hell hadn't been his idea, but he figured it was for the best. He could definitely use the rest and would enjoy a break from the campaign, even though it would probably be for only one night. He had access to a morphine pump in case he needed a hit for pain, and that would help as well. So far, he'd taken only one dose, although he was past due for another. He wanted a clear head when Keegan Riley arrived.
His phone buzzed with another text.
"Damn it," he muttered, groaning as he reached for the device.
This text was from C.J. Bowman. Rick frowned down at the screen.
Found shooter's nest, probable DNA, & the round that hit you. Also prints.
"Good," Rick murmured, quickly asking C.J. to push the lab to hurry all three tests: fingerprints, ballistics, and DNA, even though that one would still take a while. If they could at least get a fingerprint match, they'd be in business. A hit in AFIS would definitely help.
Will do, C.J. answered. BTW, nest approx 200 yds from office. Cigarette butts = DNA.
"So the son of a bitch knew my schedule and was waiting for me," Rick murmured, thinking aloud. "Why else would he have staked out Willa's office? Who else knew I'd be there? My secretary, C.J., Mitch, Keegan... and nobody else, right? Makes no sense to me, unless..."
Irritated as to where his thoughts had gone, he tossed down the phone and grimaced as another shaft of pain speared his shoulder. He needed another dose of morphine, but still wanted to wait. Damn it. Being injured sucks.
A nurse wandered into the room to take his vitals, check his bandage, and adjust his IV. She slipped back out a few moments later without engaging him in much conversation, and for that he was glad. Small talk about his condition didn't bother him. He assured her he was fine so she'd get out of there and he could go back to whining to himself about getting shot. He hated being sidelined, even for a little while... and with the election coming up, his injuries could spell doom for his campaign if Maillet played it right.
Rick frowned. I need to get back on my feet ASAP, because if that guy wins, Keller County will be in a mess.
A soft knock at the door jolted him out of his pity-party reverie. Couldn't be a nurse, because in his experience they didn't knock.
"Come in." He hurriedly adjusted the blanket over the dark blue sling holding his left arm against his chest and sat up a little straighter, even though the movement sent another streak of agony through him. He ground his teeth and endured it, then pasted what he hoped was a relaxed expression on his face. At least maybe he wouldn't look so bad.
The door swung open, and Keegan stepped into the room, looking a little shell-shocked. Her shiny dark hair gleamed beneath the meager light coming from the small aluminum fixture over the sink. She halted just inside the door and stared at him.
"Ms. Riley?" He frowned. "Are you all right?"
"Oh, yes. I-I'm sorry. Hello, Sheriff." Her demeanor changed, and her concerned bottle green gaze played over his face. "I should be the one asking if you're okay. Detective Ransom said you are, but if you aren't feeling well, I'll be more than happy to come back later."
"No need for that. I'm fine, Keegan." He indicated a tacky blue chair to the left of the bed with his good arm. "Come on in and have a seat. I don't bite."
"Well, those reporters outside certainly do." She ducked her head and blew out a shaky breath. "Especially that Mindy Ravens. She's relentless."
"I've been waylaid by that woman a time or two myself." Surprised by the deep blush that had risen to color Keegan's cheeks, he settled back against the pillow and studied her. "She really must have shaken you up."
"You could say that, but I didn't come here to talk about her." She gnawed her lip. "Detective Ransom said you want to go ahead with your questions, and that surprised me. Are you sure you're up to it?"
"Yes," he said. "I'm a little woozy, but I'll live. And I don't like to waste time."
"So much for my reprieve then, huh?"
"Exactly." He tilted his head. "Where were you this morning?"
"What do you mean?" She looked startled.
He shrugged. "Just what I said. Where were you around ten a.m. today?
"In court, sketching the participants in Wicker trial." Her blush faded and her skin grew pale. She shot him an aggravated look. "At least fifty people, including Judge Rouse, counsel for both the prosecution and the defense, and Detective Ransom can verify that."
"Wow, that's a dandy alibi. Did you arrange for someone else to shoot me, then? Since you had to be in court all day, you couldn't possibly have pulled the trigger yourself, but you could've paid someone else to do it."
"Of course not," she snapped, anger flashing in her eyes, "and I resent the question."
"I had to ask."
"Really? I don't understand why. I saved your life yesterday." She folded her hands around her purse in her lap. "Why would I turn around today and pay someone to take you out?"
"I don't know. You tell me."
"Sheriff--"
"Why were you at the Kitty Kat Klub the night Dirk Woodward died? That's what this all stems from, and you never got a chance to tell me yesterday."
"We're back to that?" Obviously surprised by his abrupt change of topic, she gaped at him. After a moment, however, her expression changed from one of astonishment to one of resignation. "Oh. Well--"
"Yeah, oh. We're back to that." He narrowed his eyes. Wou
ld she evade the question this time, or answer him honestly?
She peered down at the purse in her lap as if it held the answer he wanted. Finally, after a long pause, she looked up at him. "Fine. I didn't want to tell you the truth, because I was embarrassed. I followed my boyfriend there that night after I found out he'd been lying to me for months, swearing he'd never go there again and--"
"To the strip club?"
"Yes." She blew out a disgusted sigh. "He did it anyway, and I caught him. Apparently, he'd rather gawk at naked strangers gyrating on a stage than be with me, so... we're not together anymore. I broke up with him the very next morning."
"You followed him there?"
"Yes. I got there right before the murder and found a place to hide. My plan was to wait for him to come out, no matter how long it took, and confront him in the parking lot -- a public place -- so he couldn't deny it." She averted her gaze. "Then that crazy man ran out of the club and stabbed Mr. Woodward. I called nine-one-one and got the hell out of there."
"Why didn't you identify yourself to the nine-one-one operator?"
"I didn't want anyone to know I was there." She glanced down at her hands, wrapped so tightly around her purse that her tendons stood out. "I-I was at the Kitty Kat Klub in the worst part of town on a Saturday night, for crying out loud. If any of my friends found out and discovered I was there because of Barry, I'd never hear the end of it."
"What's Barry's last name?"
"Um... Jones." She chewed on her lip. "Barry Jones."
"How long did the two of you date?"
"About... about six months." She met his eyes. "He doesn't matter anymore. He's no longer a part of my life, so..."
"Does he live in Hunter's Bayou?"
"No." Keegan raised her chin in a move Rick considered defiant. "He's from Gulfport. Why are you asking about him, anyway? He didn't witness the murder. I did."
"I'm just a little curious." He resisted the urge to smirk. She was lying through her teeth. "Where'd you park that night?"
"On the next street. I-I didn't want Barry to know I was there until I had a chance to confront him, and knew that if he saw my car, he'd figure out my plan. I didn't want anybody else to see me at all."
Keller County Cops Book Seven: Code of Vengeance Page 11